


AELDWS Inceptiversary 2016

by kate_the_reader



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Drabbles, M/M, aeldws, short fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 10:47:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7798801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader/pseuds/kate_the_reader
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The five drabbles submitted for the non-elimination round during Inceptiversary, July 2016.<br/>Each story is its own chapter, and there is one additional chapter for the fourth drabble.</p><p> </p><p>Kind beta support from mycitruspocket and MsBrightsideSH. Thank you!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Number puzzle

**Author's Note:**

> Summary: A dream safe combination is never random.  
> Prompt: locked out

“What the … What the fuck?”

“What?”

“I can’t unlock the safe!”

“Well, of course it’s tricky, darling. That’s what safes are for.”

“Yes, but we’re supposed to be able to open dream safes. Otherwise, what’s the point! It’s nearly always their birthday.”

“Hmm, but not always. How much time do we have?”

“Fifteen minutes.”

“Damn. Well, let’s think. You know everything there is to know about him, so we’ll just puzzle it out.”

“Eames, if it’s not his birthday, it could be anything.”

“Yes, but darling, a dream combination is always meaningful. Even if it’s just numbers, it’s never random.”

“Well, sure, but … Okay. His father’s birthday was November 2nd, 1921.”

“No, that’s not it.”

“His wedding was on September 9th, 1989.”

“Nah. Not much of a romantic, I suppose.”

“His first child was born on June 6th, 1997.”

“No. Well, this guy is really cold.”

“His first car’s registration was 123651 …”

“His first car? Arthur, you are thorough!”

“Of course, Eames.”

“And his cars are significant … But no, that’s not it, either.” 

“But, god, if it was me, that number would have driven me mad. So nearly a pattern.”

“Darling, your logical brain is truly genius! 123654!”

“Huh, yes, that … works.”

“Of course it does, love. You’ve never been foiled by a mere lock, have you? You can find your way in anywhere you want to.”

“Well, yeah. I guess.”

“Darling. Arthur. I’m not talking about locks and safes anymore.”

“No?”

“No. How much time is left on the clock? Ten minutes? Whatever shall we do with ten minutes to spare? Oh, I know!”

“Eames? … Mmmmf.”

“Darling, no time for talking now, eh?”


	2. Well fitted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames decides he needs some alterations  
> prompt: altered, post-canon, post-movie

“Can you make them any tighter?” Eames is standing in front of a long mirror in a tailor’s shop in old Mombasa, not far from his small apartment. The tailor is pinning a pair of his favourite trousers.  
“Tighter, sir? That would ruin these pants, sir,” says the tailor. “Not meant to be tighter, sir.”  
“Well, can you make me a pair that are … better fitted, then?” says Eames, recalling the gaze he had caught Arthur directing at him in Paris.  
He had been all too aware of the tightness of Arthur’s trousers, shown off delectably as he had gone about his tasks in that warehouse. But he thought he’d caught a look of disapproval? No, that wasn’t it. Disappointment. Disappointment on Arthur’s face once or twice, as he glanced at Eames’s Forties styles.  
“Yes, I would like a pair of very well tailored trousers, please.”   
The tailor gives him a knowing look and pulls out a book of sketches.  
“Of course. Now, which side does sir dress?”  
“Which side …?”  
“If sir would like well-fitted trousers, they have to … ah … accommodate.” The tailor gestures at Eames’s crotch.  
“Oh,” says Eames, “To the left.”


	3. Small, dark, bitter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Then, he can almost taste it. How she taught him to like it. Small, dark, bitter.  
> Prompt: bitter

Sometimes, memories rise up when he is least expecting them. 

He might be in a grocery store, looking for the brand of coffee he prefers, and the image of her, turning from the stovetop with the espresso pot in hand, will assail him. Her voice warm, laughing. “No, _cher_ , no milk!” 

Then, he can almost taste it. How she taught him to like it. Small, dark, bitter.

Then, he will have to order the biggest, milkiest latte to wash away the memory. He hates that.

After they get together, he doesn’t tell Eames. 

He knows, of course, about the long months of sadness and running. The months he hated even to think of her.

Eames doesn’t ask, just brings him lattes. Big and sweet, milky and bland. Studies him carefully as he drinks. Can he see the twist of distaste?

Then one morning, he doesn’t ask, simply brings an espresso. Small, dark, bitter.

“You really do prefer it like this, don’t you, darling?”

“Oh god yes. Bitter.”

“But that’s not all that’s bitter, eh?”

And that is true. He is bitter, bitter-sad, about how much he lost too. He’s not allowed to be, though, is he? She wasn’t his to mourn like that.

“But you are, darling. Allowed,” says Eames, reading his thoughts. “You are allowed to be bitter. And sad. You don’t have to pretend. Not with me.”

And just like that, he feels a weight lift. 

“Alright. With you. Thank you.”

“No more lattes, then?”

“No. Bitter, please.”

 


	4. An itch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It starts as an itch.  
> Prompt: Skin, genre: magical realism

It starts as an itch. 

An itch on an inaccessible bit of skin. The middle of his shoulder blade. Arthur twitches under his suit, trying to soothe the irritation.

He tries to ignore it, but it pulls his focus, until he has to go to the bathroom, take off his jacket, and his waistcoat, reach over and scratch.

That helps, for a while, but soon the itch has spread, further down his back, and wider. The itch is a burn, now. And it keeps spreading.

Arthur is almost frantic.

He goes back to his hotel, stopping at a pharmacy for soothing cream.

He strips and regards his back in the mirror. A large red patch spreads from his left shoulder almost to the top of his ass. 

He takes a cool shower, sighing as the water eases the burn. Dries off. Tries to spread cream over the welt. It’s hard to reach and he wishes he had someone to rub it in.

It takes a week for the mark to stop itching and fade.

**

Arthur is reclining poolside on day two of his well-earned holiday when a shadow falls across his thriller, and a drop of water falls onto the page.

“Darling!” says a familiar voice.

He looks up, and there is Eames, shaking water out of his eyes. “Imagine finding you here! May I join you? I’ll get my things.”

And he turns away, before Arthur can say a word.

On his left shoulder, spreading almost to the top of his ass, is a new tattoo. 

Eames returns and sits on the end of the lounger, turned so Arthur can read the words inked there: “Dear love, for nothing less than thee

Would I have broke this happy dream; …”

It continues all the way down his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem referenced is The Dream by John Donne.  
> The relevant stanza is quoted in the second chapter, which follows straight after this.


	5. let's act the rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Eames realise the meaning of the mark on Arthur's back.
> 
> "His breath stops in his throat and he is trembling by the time his finger has moved all the way down, almost to the top of Eames’s ass."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't part of the drabble competition, but mycitruspocket and I started to speculate ...

Arthur reaches out and runs a finger over the words on Eames’s back, brushing off drops of water as he reads: 

_“Dear love, for nothing less than thee_

_Would I have broke this happy dream;_

_It was a theme_

_For reason, much too strong for fantasy,_

_Therefore thou wak’d’st me wisely; yet_

_My dream thou brok’st not, but continued’st it._

_Thou art so true that thoughts of thee suffice_

_To make dreams truths, and fables histories;_

_Enter these arms, for since thou thought’st it best,_

_Not to dream all my dream, let’s act the rest.”_

His breath stops in his throat and he is trembling by the time his finger has moved all the way down, almost to the top of Eames’s ass.

Eames has turned his head, his cheek pillowed on his shoulder, his mouth parted, his eyes soft, and sharp.

“Eames.”

His hand rests on Eames’s hip and he tips his forehead to his shoulder, so close to his mouth.

“When did you get this?”

“A month ago.”

They are whispering. The noise of other swimmers has faded to nothing.

Arthur’s stomach clenches. He reaches round to pick up Eames’s hand from the lounger. “Come with me?” he says. He stands up and Eames rises with him.

“Of course,” he says, and they walk away from the pool with its noise of play and its bright clarity, into the shadows of the hotel, to the stillness of Arthur’s room.

Eames has a question in his eyes, but he doesn’t ask it.

Arthur sits on the bed. Eames, damp, remains standing, looking down.

“When did you say you got it?”

“A month ago. When I was in London.”

“And I was in Prague.”

“Yes. Why, Arthur?”

“How did you know where to find me? You being here. That’s not coincidence.”

“No.”

Arthur reaches over, picks up his phone from the nightstand, thumbs his way to the photo album.

“I … I think I felt it.”

He turns his phone so Eames can see the picture.

The picture he took in the mirror in that other hotel. His own back, damp from the shower, a patch of redness spreading from his shoulder, down his back, almost to the top of his ass.

Eames reaches out, takes the phone.

“When was this, Arthur?”

“A month ago. When I was in Prague. And you were in London.”

Eames bites his lip. His finger hovers above the screen, tracing the shape of the mark.

“I think I felt it, Eames.”

Eames looks back down at Arthur.

“It started in the middle of my shoulder blade. It felt like an itch. Then it burned. It lasted a week, burning.”

“Yes. It does. It did,” says Eames. He kneels in front of Arthur, looking up now.

“I wanted to tell you. Somehow. How I felt. How I feel.”

“And I felt it. I feel it,” says Arthur. He reaches out, cups Eames’s cheek, leans forward and kisses him.

His other hand runs down Eames’s back, almost to the top of his ass, fingers tracing the words. “Let’s act the rest,” he murmurs.


	6. A detour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, not thinking will show you the way forward.  
> prompt: the road not taken

Eames is going to find a hotel and sleep for a week. He hopes it’s a dreamless week. He’s going to sleep and order room service and watch stupid American television and take long showers.

He’s not going to think.

He’s not going to think about Arthur. Not going to think about him in that long, crazy, messy dream. Not going to think about him in that Paris warehouse.

So he shakes himself out of his stupor, picks up his bag, and strides out to get a cab. 

He wasn’t waiting for Arthur. Not really.

He finds a hotel, with a good bed and a big shower and many television channels and passable room service and he sleeps.

But he can’t stop his brain. And his brain dreams when he’s asleep and thinks when he’s awake.

Arthur in that dream hotel, thumb stroking Eames’s wrist, teasing and serious. Arthur in the warehouse, all sharp edges and private glances.

At the end of his week of sleeping, Arthur is even more in his head than he’s ever been.

**

Arthur sees Eames standing off to the side at LAX as he waits for his bags, but when he turns towards him, Eames is gone.

Arthur wasn't going to go anywhere with him anyway. 

He finds a hotel with a good gym and a good pool and a passable restaurant and he relaxes. 

He wasn’t going to go with Eames and he’s not going to think about Eames.

At the end of his week of not thinking about Eames -- wet and deadly in that dream rainstorm -- while he runs on the treadmill, and not thinking about Eames -- clever and precise in the Paris warehouse, smiling a secret smile -- as he swims laps in the p0ol, Arthur has decided where to go next. 

He books a ticket and packs his things and goes to check out.

A familiar figure in a vintage blazer is leaning against the desk.

“Eames? I thought you were in Mombasa?”

“Did you, darling? Well, that’s where I’m headed. You?”

“Funny you should ask,” says Arthur, pulling out his ticket. To Mombasa.

 

 


End file.
